


Cordon Aes

by CampionSayn



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers: Armada, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gore, Kink Meme, M/M, One Shot Collection, interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampionSayn/pseuds/CampionSayn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots and drabbles brought on by tf: anon and kink and Tumblr. I finally get to stick my hand in some bags of AU trash I've been itching to get into forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MTMTE- Swerve, is this angst or fluff or both?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Insecuriosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insecuriosity/gifts).



> A few very enlightening conversations with Insecuriosity gave me a reason to go browsing and my fingers got to work, so this is for that fabulous MTMTE writer.
> 
> MTMTE- Swerve, "3 things you can look back on and be proud of, 1 thing you can't"

_-:-_  
_I try to think of all the decent things I've ever done._  
_-Nobody's Daughters, Melanie Rae Thon._  
  
_-:-_  
_Delay is the deadliest form of denial._  
_-C. Northcote Parkinson._

* * *

  
I.  
  
Like the thing that can't help but happen, the energon that had been pooling under Trailbreaker's chin since he'd passed out into recharge right over the bar was starting to crust over into a flaky collective mass.  
  
Ex-venting and setting some used engex cubes into the proficiently sized sink in the back, Swerve grabbed one of his least used washrags, strung out the excess water and went back to the sleeping mech. Gently, gently, not waking the larger mech up and not bothered by the looks he was getting from Hoist and Pipes, the bartender wiped the drool off the counter and off the mech's face.  
  
II.  
  
Entirely too large hands rubbed up and down the pale moon colored plating along the back of the smaller minibot, the horrendously saddening shaking from Tailgate making Swerve grit his denta and hiss out ex-vent after ex-vent as the two stood on the other side of the medibay doors, Ambulon and others weaving in and out quickly as possible, practically growing wings on their heels when they saw Tailgate still out in the hallway.  
  
Trying to distract the other was pointless, his worry for Cyclonus almost legendary among the crew proved that, but Swerve at least tried to ease the distress; sending the other medics to tend to the injured not-Decepticon and not bother with the relatively minor cuts and scrapes among the others that had come in from the fight on the world they'd ascended from hours ago—Swerve might not have been well-liked, but he wasn't entirely useless. He could apply elixirs and gels, medical sedatives and patchwork and the like as good as anyone who had been injured in a the war and didn't want to be in that situation helpless ever again.  
  
Swerve dug his fingers into some heavy denting along Tailgate's shoulder where there was some open tears in the mesh that were leaking energon, muttering that he'd have to leave that for someone better with internal wiring. He knew Tailgate didn't hear him, so he didn't say anything else.  
  
III.  
  
“Please don't shoot me, please don't stab me, please don't crush me...”  
  
Fully aware that the words had been repeating from his mouth over and over and over again for the last three hours huddled against the base of a mountain, his tiny frame a joke compared to the practical behemoth of a mech that stood so very much taller and threatening over him on a daily basis _(don't get him wrong, Swerve liked him, he was fun—if scary as hell even when he probably didn't mean to be)_ when on the Lost Light and both of them conscious, Swerve reset Whirl's long, winding arms around his shoulders and neck again and continued moving on as fast as he could towards the sounds of yelling and shooting. It was sad that the bigger mech's head had to stay perched atop Swerve's and everything below his waste was being dragged along in the dirt, but it was that, or Swerve leaving him to look for help first.  
  
Swerve really hadn't wanted to leave the mech buried in rubble though, and swallowed as much of his own fear as he could, visor cranked up to pained brightness when he'd shoved rocks and debris away and Whirl still hadn't woken up.  
  
The crack in Whirl's single optic was bleeding and the cables in his neck and spinal struts were damaged so severely that Swerve could hear them sparking internally, the metal clacking against loose parts with each step the mini had to take in forward momentum.  
  
Swerve was freaking out, but not giving up.  
  
The sky above them was awash with smoke from fires and wreckage left to smolder from crashing into the mountain Swerve stayed along so as not to lose his way, some loud shrieks from gunfire launching closer to the two the more Swerve sped up, occasionally close enough for the mini to squeak an, “Ah!” or “Sorry-sorry-sorry!” that momentarily derailed the ever present “Please don'ts” that he would continue until he found help or climbed into the Lost Light to deposit Whirl in the medibay without the Empurata survivor waking up in a frenzied freakout.

* * *

  
0.  
  
The model isn't very big and not very precise and he knows that under scrutiny it wouldn't hold up to being worth much of anything, but Swerve didn't really have much to go on except for what he'd seen on occasion in Rung's office before the bartender had pulled the trigger.  
  
The lock on his hab-suite door _(which he never uses, he wasn't Red Alert; if someone wanted to come in and gut Swerve in his sleep, he was under no delusions now that he probably deserved it, bring it on)_ actually took a moment to register when he'd keyed in the code after he'd finished cleaning up the bar that evening. It seemed like a toll of bells or a commentary on his current state of being  
  
It was like the lock itself was telling him that nobody was going to ever room with him now that it was being used. Aside from an invitation to injury, it was an invitation anything else—friendly anything else—like just a place to crash after getting blitzed, an audio to lend, a game of cards, anything.  
  
He'd almost just unlocked the thing again, but no, he wanted to get this more important thing done within the time frame of everyone on board being in recharge and deliver it before they roamed the halls again...  
  
_The Axalon_ model wasn't made from professional grade plastics and fiberglass like Rung had, instead pulled from scrap heaps hauled into the incinerators after the numbers of battles the Lost Light crew went through after weeks and months, Swerve collecting what he could here and there when he thought the pieces might fit into something more... he didn't know. Close to the aim he was trying for.  
  
Sitting in the darkness of his room that was only broken by the single light flickers of the tiny lamp he'd set up a few days ago that was almost kind of useless, Swerve nudged the tools on the table as he set his head in his other hand. The screw he tapped rolled a couple of times and clinked against the tiny paint jars he'd bought but still wasn't brave enough to open.  
  
Crooked wings, a dent on the nose of the model from when he'd dropped it four days previous, curved metal that had once been part of an engex processor that served as the bottom and curled inward no matter how hard he tried to smooth it out.  
  
It wasn't ready. Swerve couldn't give Rung this as an apology, an empty gesture, “Sorry I shot you in the head.”  
  
Swerve lifted the model from its stand, both hands on either side. He didn't even have to squeeze or flex very hard until the frame crushed into a wrinkled ball.  
  
He'd try again before he made a move towards Rung in any sort of apology. Swerve's words would fall on deaf audials so he'd keep trying until it was perfect, otherwise what was there?


	2. TFA- Optimus/Sentinel/Blackarachnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TFA: trauma, non-con, OT3, Optimus/Sentinel/Blackarachnia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is short the comfort part of the kink, but it's something. I might come back for more if I ever feel like it.

_-:-_  
_But who can remember pain, once it's over?_  
_-Margaret Atwood._

* * *

  
_There is something pressing against his lips, slimy and dripping across his mouth and the rest of his face, and his denta clench tighter, even as the sharply formed fingers at his hips dig in even deeper and the thing that's happening at his pelvic plates gets more aggressive._  
  
_The biggest of the Decepticons in the room, the one doubtlessly pressing the disgusting appendage to his face makes a subtle suggestion, hissing and looking over across the room, flicking her hand towards where the figure bound in stasis cuffs and hanging by them on a hook on the wall keeps screaming profanities, “You sireless fraggers stop this right slaggin' now—get off of him—stop it--!!”_  
  
_His heroic self was slowly being crushed under the weight of the horrible situation he was already in, like some brave deer drawing wolves away from its herd and being asked to do more when it was being mauled to death under a black sky with miles of trees separating him, but it wasn't his heroic side that let go enough to open his mouth._  
  
_This self was the part of him that Elita had chastised him about in the Academy when he'd bail Sentinel out of a situation that he had gotten into all by himself and couldn't get out of without a little help and Optimus always came running because they were friends._  
  
_He couldn't help thinking that she'd always had a point, just before the massive, grotesque femme had her lieutenants—the horrible one that turned into something like a frog with many tongues and the sickly green and black one that smelled like something Optimus had once seen on the side of a road outside of Detroit crawling with maggots with a personality to match—stop pounding into him in order to hold the Autobot firetruck down. As soon as they were off him, she was inside him and he couldn't stop self-disgust washing over him like the tide._  
  
_Optimus stopped looking over at Sentinel, instead shutting off his optics and thought with what little emotion not numbed by all this being done to him if this is what Sari meant when she'd first described what it was like to want to cry._

* * *

  
He hasn't been refueling. He hasn't been talking or interacting with his team unless he has to in order to keep things running smoothly against their enemies—Decepticon or human. His body armor has multiple scratches and dents from fighting that he hasn't bothered to let Ratchet look over and fix.  
  
The only thing that goes into him these days is oil, and not especially rich oil—and ethanol when too much of the oil made its way to the top of his throat to make him feel too heavy. He can't seem to tolerate the sight of energon and when offered, he just gives it to the younger bots or Ratchet—and sometimes the Elite Guard when they kept popping up on Earth far more often and unannounced.  
  
The Medibot and Sentinel knew why—hard to forget something like that so quickly when Sentinel had been witness to the whole thing, screaming for the medibot to not bother with the small chaffing at his wrists and just go to Optimus in the back room the 'Cons had put him in before the cavalry had arrived and they'd been ordered by Megatron to leave. Ratchet hadn't felt quite so sick, finding his leader in the state he was in hanging by his wrists and most of his body armor ripped off to reveal a damaged and defiled protoform, since Omega Supreme had gone offline or been in the medibays triage during the war working on bots brought back from torture sessions.  
  
Ratchet stared at the door to Optimus's room, locked and dead quiet like it often was lately and ex-vented before stepping away to turn on Teletran-1 and make a long-distance call.

* * *

  
  
Maybe he wasn't doing too badly. Maybe there wasn't as much damage to the Prime as his first appearance taken down off the rusted hooks on the wall covered in lubricant implied. Optimus was a screw-up, but he'd always been good at taking car of himself.  
  
These thoughts that were occurring in rapid fire, faster than Sentinel could look them all over, were not stopping his stabilizing pede from tapping up and down as the Steelhaven made its way through space. Decepticon activity had been surprisingly lacking in the last few days, none of the Autobots certain as to why, but happy for the slow down in activity—save for Sentinel, feeling the urge to take out the 'Cons considerably more than what was normal.  
  
Jazz had asked him about his mood shift after their last confrontation, worried after they'd responded to a call for help from an outpost being attacked and Sentinel had been actually quite effective, sustaining injuries to his own person, but not nearly as much as the enemies that had turned to run.  
  
_“Did something happen back on Earth, SP? You've been really... intense, lately.”_  
  
“Nothing happened. I'm fine.”  
  
Which was half a lie and half a truth and while Sentinel really didn't like lying to Jazz, whom actually passed as the closest thing he'd had to a friend since he and Optimus stopped being civil after Elita and the spiders, he couldn't go into what was wrong. It was too much, he couldn't talk about it--  
  
“Sentinel?”  
  
The blue Autobot flinched a little in place, turning from where he was looking out his hab-suite window at the stars and turned to find his crew's ninja-bot hovering in the doorway.  
  
“Don't you know how to knock?”  
  
“Three times, but you didn't hear me.”  
  
Blue optics without a trace of good humor narrowed on the ninja-bot and prompted him into expedience lest he get a lecture on respect of rank and the usual garbage that left Sentinel's mouth on a normal day—it'd been a while and Jazz knew it would come back if the shield and lance mech didn't loosen the slag up soon.  
  
“...You've got a call from Ratchet on deck. Seems kinda important; somethin' about Optimus.”

* * *

  
Her brain was aching and her frame was so groggy that it took her an hour or a couple more to get up once the sun rose above the horizon of the little clusters of dense forests and high rocks that the spider-bot had made her current base of operations until she could find a way back to a more technologically sophisticated city or planet. Or until she got bored spending her days on the animal preserve, observing the wildlife that weren't quite feral enough, collecting specimens for her experiments, avoiding the areas she had vague feelings Waspinator was skulking around trying to repair himself.  
  
Clawed fingers gripped at the French Cafe Original sized bowl she used to make up her breakfast _(technically, the bowl wasn't a bowl; from her research she'd learned that Parisians once used it to stand in and wash off—this was before humans invented indoor plumbing and showers—which was fascinating by degrees)_ and the peeled tree branch she used as a whisk flashed through the uncoagulated blood of the four wildebeests she'd drained the other day.  
  
The half-gallons of oil and energon created bubbles in the red organic fluid, popping when they touched back up to the surface.  
  
“Yummy,” Blackarachnia sighed in bitter sarcasm to nobody at all—well, maybe the gorilla or the cheetah, always lazing about like they owned the cave she'd found made up of broken rock face and sloping in the earth made over time; the rhino couldn't fit through the entrance she'd set up, thank Primus—before raising the meal and downing it in a couple gulps.  
  
She never should have stayed up so late working on the computer she'd cobbled together over the months, but she'd finally gotten back into the gossip chains among the Decepticons through some inventive loopholes in coding. Some idiots among Strika's unit were gloating about some fun they'd had with the Elite Guard some time back and the like, but that was nothing.  
  
Until the word 'firetruck' came up with some communication back and forth between Oilslick and Blitzwing _(his random personality on a tear about messing around without him and his hothead persona going off about ruining an opportunity in the name of Lord Megatron)_ and then her interest turned a little dark and more severe asking for details as much on the down low as she could.  
  
When the Decepticon scientist answered back with some details about tight valves and an Autobot that knew the merit of silence, how pretty his lips were, how small he was—and the yammering Elite Guard that had gotten them both into the situation and almost ruined his and his team's fun just looking at the stupid bolt in his chin and his too shiny blue paint... The techno-organic had to sign out and shut the computer off before she put a chair or a rock through it and destroyed her own hard work.  
  
She felt tremors in the rocks around her and along the air and she sighed, muttering still in her head and a little out loud, “Not my problem, anyway, really. Full of scrap, those 'Cons...” and paid no heed to the still going earth shakes. Plenty of earthquakes had ripped through the preserve in her time there, so she didn't really register it at such a low frequency of impact.  
  
She had too much work to do and the day to still get ready for.  
  
Her lack of focus would cost her what fake piece of mind she could patch and shift together no better than this base she still snorted in the calling of the word.

* * *

  
“I... I think I need your help.”  
  
Oh, frag her.  
  
Red optics shut tight and she reigned in any and every twitch in for the vote of the distinct, awful instinct to purge her tanks when all of the conversation from her computer and that awful mech came ramming into the back of her processor.  
  
  
Sentinel standing before her without his lance or his shield looking filthy with tree leaves and muck, optics wide and pleading, brought back what little compassion she had left in herself and she surrendered to the inevitability of getting out of the area in the lat way she would have ever wanted to.  
  
“...It's about Optimus, isn't it?”  
  
“He's not... he's... he's not doing very well.”


	3. TF: Armada- King Cups and Mini Cups /Army!AU lotta pairings with fluff, angst and NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: buck-fire:  
> why do transformers gotta be big?? why cant they be small and pocket sized!! like lil kids toys that a child inherited from their father/grand father and they turned out to be little transforming aliens in stasis!!  transformers taking naps in sock drawers, getting all dressed up in dolls clothes. Dinobots napping in cat baskets and sunbathing in little rays of light around the house.  
> 
> Tumblr Bonus: That AU where Transformers are the tallest beings in the universe... followed directly by Earthlings who are shorter by only a couple feet. Minicons still fit in their hands like Barbie dolls, though. The kids are in their early twenties because they were irritating as pre-teens in canon. I can love them more as adults.  
> Double Bonus: Army!AU where the whole planet got involved in the war and picked sides. And yes, Earth might not be as technologically advanced, but they're a lot more creative to make up for being more fragile.
> 
> Triple Bonus: Apromptadaykeepsthecriticsaway: Write ten opening line for a piece. (I cheated on this a little, obviously. A single line is just... it looks so sad by itself. Let's say drabbles instead.)

_-:-_  
 _I am his Highness's Dog at kew,_  
 _Pray tell me sir, whose dog are you?_  
 _-Alexander Pope._  


* * *

  
1. **Humans/Minicon Partners:**  
  
All three of them were extremely lucky to have woken up in the hands of these soft giants that went above and beyond their abilities to understand and care for the Street Action Team. And starting out in the same town was a blessing in disguise that they would not change for anything. Sparkplug could keep his Prime, Leader-1 his warlord; the three of them would cherish the feelings granted to them—High Wire proudly following after Rad while mounted on one of the army attack dogs the blonde had trained for him so he wouldn't tire out around the Autobot/NEST base; Grindor joining Carlos happily in the wash racks after a mission in the field had ended badly or well to help each other scrub off blood and grime; Sureshock sleeping with Alexis in bed, safe and warmer than any other time he'd been alive.

* * *

  
  
2\. **Autobots+Fred/Minicons**  
  
“Now, see, I know the stuff we eat wouldn't be all that appetizing to the fleshies--”  
  
“Jetfire, Rad kicked your skidplate during morning combat practice, I don't think you should be insulting his people by using words like that,” Red Alert interrupted as he continued putting together a rocket launcher Billy had given him early that weak, still having a hard time figuring out how the frag it worked and hoping that he wouldn't accidentally blast someone with it out in the field with the kickback it gave when he pulled the trigger.  
  
“--But those chip things that they ingest? How can that be satisfying?”  
  
“I don't imagine they are,” Scavenger piped up from his seat at the coffee table some of the probies reinforced with steel and bindings so the Autobots wouldn't be too scared of falling on their afts while enjoying morning energon, “Otherwise Fred wouldn't devour six bags a day.”  
  
“I heard that!” The base chef called from the far end of the room, trying to sweep dust and debris and small pebbles out of the base entrance and not having an easy time of it as his Minicon Spiral _(bless her for being one of the more considerate of the Minicons, but pity her for being almost as overweight in reference to her height as Fred was)_ was busy chasing Twirl and Nightbeat all over the place to herd them to recharge in Sideswipe's berth and Alexis's sock drawer where they should have been an hour ago; the two trouble makers wheeling and running circles around her and poor Fred's feet—Nightbeat climbing up his camouflage pants twice but not getting all the way up when Fred brushed him with the broom's bristled end and sent him down with giggling beeps.

* * *

  
  
3\. **Decepticons**  
  
A loud ex-vent echoed through the clearing of wild flora and pollen fluttering through the air, trailing behind fuzzy insects called bees that Swindle continued to chase after, Blackout and Crumplezone behind him in lagging, pathetic comparison. When Swindle paused at the echo the vent caused, wind crashing into some plants that smacked against Starscream's helm, the other minicons practically smashed into his back, all of them toppling with the speedster and rolling forth into a cluster of fully ripe, grown, nourished dandelions that exploded white in a burst on impact.  
  
“Did... did you just _sneeze_ , Screamer?”  
  
“Don't be ridiculous,” the Seeker replied, straightening from his bent position half on top of himself, knees bent and helm nearly pressed into an Elder tree, “I was just clearing my intakes.”

* * *

  
  
4\. **Carlos/Grindor**  
  
It was amazing that human flesh could change in temperature from one hour to the next, depending on where the sun was above their heads; all day long Grindor had been hiding under his Latin American partner's protective jacket, feeling rivulets and floods of sweat wash over Carlos and the cloth the Minicon's tiny digits clung to for purchase against the many pockets in and outside the clothing _(two inside the left breast served as footholds for most of their days, filled with barely used packets of cigarettes, stick matches in a box, cinnamon gum and Grindor's feet crushing them as he leaned over the rim of the shirt's neck)_ and yet, once the last rays of light left, night made all of this cold.  
  
Grindor was fine with that, though. Carlos holding his tiny frame in the palm of one calloused hand and breathing warm air over wiring and mesh more than made up for it. The man even ignored it when Grindor's fans clicked on and continued with such a grin that Grindor often found propositions on the tip of his glossa.  
  
They were never voiced; Carlos easily got the message when the mech's plating went slack and the human's thumb and ring finger rubbed sensitive spots whilst the other hand busied itself with less vague things.

* * *

  
  
5\. **Thrust+Minicons/Billy**  
  
Burns along the human's body ran the gambit from first to third degree, the worst of it along his left hip that many of the little ones gathered around knew would impede his ability to do much of anything anymore without being in agonizing pain from where Thrust's gunshot had hit at near point-blank range, flesh searing inwards and into the bone when he'd fallen among the wreckage of the building he, Refute, Liftor and Rollbar had been doing reconnaissance in. The wretched jet hadn't even been enough of a mech to confront the sandy haired captain with his weapon on hand—setting fire to the place with his thrusters and some poor wiring had been more than beneficial for the 'Con.  
  
But, William “Billy” considered through the haze of every pain medication Red Alert had seen fit to give him _(rather than have him come around half delusional and vomiting again, screams unpleasant as ice cracking underfoot in the middle of a frozen river and no way to get across)_ at least the bastard hadn't gotten any of the Minicons presently camping out on his pillow and chest like a bunch of worried cats.

* * *

  
  
6\. **High Wire/Rad**  
  
The bed was soft and the first born of the Minicons was finally seeing his partner _(best friend, sentience giver, protector, soldier, lieutenant of NEST, partner—if High Wire ever got the courage to ask before one or both of them got sick or died in battle or got hit by a car or something)_ completely exposed. No Kevlar, no camouflage, no clothing of any kind. Just what looked and felt like oceans of soft skin and muscle jumping under the ministrations the Minicon set out to doing after Rad settled down after his shower and had already taken care of the mech currently splayed out over a toned and defined six-pack that would make the armorless protoforms of the Autobots look shoddy and unkempt in contrast. Skin showed scars and were permanent on fair skin like Rad's and High Wire had yet to see a mech or femme that couldn't hide their own welding and patch-ups with a good paint job.  
  
This was what he loved about the human. Honesty in person.

* * *

  
  
7\. **Demolisher/Starscream/Cyclonus+Red Alert**  
  
“Is it just me, or are human jails a lot nicer than the ones we had on Cybertron?”  
  
“It's not just you,” Demolisher muttered over to Cyclonus, the flying mech hanging off of the inter-connecting bars of the inter-connecting cells that allowed the three captured Decepticons to move about freely if they really wanted to. True, they weren't allowed in with the human prisoners _(squatters picked up for vandalizing housing developments and stealing pipes and stuff from the construction houses—those humans all looking over at the mechs like they were hallucinating, which Starscream would put money down that some of them were since they all looked a little like mechs and femmes in the slums back home that over-charged on coding and engex outlawed for sale on both sides of the war—and bikers that started a riot at a bar down town causing fourteen people to go to the hospital)_ but none of them could get over how much space the place had.  
  
“If Megatron ever leaves us behind or kicks us out again, I might just turn myself in here again,” Starscream muttered so the Autobot in the room over—talking with a sergeant at the desk and organizing and signing paperwork for their release into Autobot and NEST custody—wouldn't make a note of his words and the Seeker settled into the leather lining of the benches that doubled as makeshift beds for the drunks and stoners regularly hauled in by the cops on the night shift, “This is way more comfortable than the berths back at our base.”  
  
“I might just come back when we break out to steal this stuff,” Cyclonus cackled, climbing up and down the bars once more, feet hovering just off the ground with his antics. The metal holding him up gave a little protests, but not much.

* * *

  
  
8\. **Sparkplug/Leader-1**  
  
If Optimus or Megatron ever caught the two minicons like this—wiring from their lower panels exposed, ex-venting boiling air, fans on maximum power, covered helm to ped in their own and each others' fluids—they would either being hanging their heads in shame or enraged, but for the time being, lying together in some old bed linen Rad and Carlos had loaned Sparkplug for this little rendezvous _(smelling strongly of Rad's patio plants at home, petals crushed into the very fabric by happenstance and the stain resistant laundry wash Carlos used on base)_ neither mech could bring themselves to care. They would simply take the moment to cool their systems before Leader-1 would inevitably lean back into Sparkplug and start the whole thing all over again—this time with the grey mech on the bottom since he was starting to get sore in his leg wiring.

* * *

  
  
9\. **Hot Shot/Wheeljack**  
  
Black roses were a thing his two favorite army men had introduced Hot Shot to. Not those dead things that are hung upside-down and bound together with a ribbon to keep them looking like tombs within themselves, but those living things that good gardeners grow from nature with hybrid seeds or dye that does no harm when added to the soil and the water.  
  
He found them appropriate here, at the far end of the base, a small hutch of a building where they kept Decepticons when shot down and for later interrogation; delicate petals touched his fingers and the white Baby's Breath Jolt had suggested _(after carrying around symbolism books from the human library like a tiny red ant marching forward with a stick thirty times its own size)_ accented the fact that the veins along the stalk were still pumping life through it, swallowed up from the rich soil of its birthplace.  
  
Wheeljack wouldn't look at him from his place in the medical ward of the place, tubing from the packets Red Alert had hung up to drain into open ports making the gold-black mech appear almost smaller; like a bird the racer had once seen on the highway, smashed and neck broken and dead where it had once been alive and flying moments before Hot Shot saw it make a bad spin and hit a tree with a cracking sound. That was fine.  
  
Hot Shot set the roses on the adjacent table and took a seat, firing up his music system _(fantastic thing Grindor had introduced Jolt to and helped the orange helicopter set it up for himself and Hot Shot after a little bribery with that organic fuel they both liked originating from pond algae)_ and a little relieved when the other at least twitched when the noise made impact with his audio receptors.  
  
“Hope you don't mind alternative rock,” Hot Shot hummed as he pressed a few buttons and switched to a softer song when re realized that Red Alert or Longarm were doubtless hovering around to snap at Hot Shot any moment if he misbehaved, “Red and Optimus won't let me play heavy metal of the freak beat on base anymore. Too many sirens scares the humans, makes them pick up their weapons and come running.”

* * *

  
  
10. **Starscream/Alexis+Sureshock/Alexis+Starscream/Swindle (because I had to)**  
  
Snow was really the most wonderful thing in the world when you wanted to track someone down. True, following much larger footprints out to the edge of a cliff that looked out onto nothing but gloomy overcast sky and more white covered mountains wasn't the best confidence builder, but the presence of her Minicon safe half-bundled in her scarf and jacket kept the onset of panic from reaching a head and, really, her quarry could fly—what good would jumping off a cliff do in this moment of melodrama?  
  
“This is not in my job description, he'd better appreciate this,” Alexis hissed beyond her chilled lips, Sureshock chirping into her neck, nuzzling at the skin that had her scented oil rubbed into it early that morning—seven hours ago—and tickled the NEST's Public Relation officer's jugular vein; violet and wisteria mingling into something light and endearing the orange Minicon never experienced on Cybertron. A thermos of Irish coffee strapped to the human's left leg and Engex in the thermos on her right leg that had taken her half an hour to figure out how to heat without the fear of making it explode and blowing up half the barracks like the last time she'd tried something like this.  
  
“You smell so damn good today,” was Sureshock's only reply, cuddling closer to skin and scarf when Alexis spotted her target, the yes-I-left-the-Decepticons-no-I'm-not-going-back-to-Megatron Seeker perched on a high rock on the far end of the cliff, legs hanging in the air, swaying. He was throwing rocks out into the abyss and she couldn't help but yell out as loud as she could,  
  
“Just because Hot Shot overstepped doesn't mean you need to act like some hormonal, angsting teenager!”  
  
The red and white mech heard her, obviously from the way he didn't toss his next stone but crushed it between thumb and pointer finger; however, he didn't turn around to reply, just moving on to bigger rocks that surrounded him and pretended she had said nothing at all.  
  
Swindle, having been using the underside of Starscream's wing as a snow cover, sitting bored beside the Seeker to absorb as much heat off of his rear as possible, chirped out at the woman, almost sarcastic but not unwilling to consider Starscream's reasons, “Oh, but then what would he do with all of his spare time?”  
  
Alexis tromped up beside the both of them just quickly enough to still Starscream's hand from flicking the Minicon off the rock and dropping him into the three feet of snow surrounding their seat of stone; her slightly smaller hand smoothly brushing the metal one from impact with the clicking-cackling red mini's head and pushing the thermos of engex into it.  
  
If he was surprised by being brought fuel, it didn't last as long or impact as much as the woman taking a seat on the other side of Swindle so the tiny racer could soak up some more immediate heat and she could open up her own thermos to boost her own reserves of energy that had been wavering every hour she'd stepped through the snow and slush, teal eyes constantly having to blink away the spots of near blindness everyone experienced when out too long in environments made of white, clean frozen water.  
  
For the life of him, Starscream couldn't understand the woman, but even he wasn't as bad mannered as to not be grateful for hot engex since he'd missed refueling twice that day in an effort to wander around in self-reflection of his choices and new alliances.  
  
Swindle scuttled up the woman's jacket and into the opening of her scarf to join Sureshock in better, dryer accommodations and Starscream nodded his head when Alexis looked his way to help him take the cap off his thermos, “Thank you. I... apologize for my inconveniencing you.”  
  
“Mm,” she shrugged, swallowing deeply the caffeine flavor she wasn't used to; black was her preference, and Irish was more Rad's thing than her own and she made a mental note to never drink it again, “Could have been worse. I could have had to drag you out of some god-forsaken bar half-drunk off your ass.”  
  
Starscream almost choked, some of his engex going down the wrong tube at the thought and he hacked out his next answer, “I...I would never do...something so... disgraceful!”  
  
She grinned around her thermos mouth and straight through a chill that shook her body when a stream of cold air rushed up from the bottom of the cliff and passed over her, “That puts you head and shoulders above Sideswipe and Hot Shot then.”  
  
The Seeker turned up his heating so what little snow had collected on his shoulders and wings melted and, thoughtless, slung an arm around the human to pull her closer to his side; their shoulders touching as well as her left leg and his right nearly knocking ankle against stabilizer, “That's hardly a surprise. Autobots can't hold their over-charge?”  
  
“Well, Scavenger and Hoist could drink you under the table, not sure about Optimus.”  
  
Starscream shuttered his optics and made a show of ignoring the image that crossed his mind at the mention of the Prime in a bar.  
  
He much preferred to focus on the engex at hand and the moon rising in the distance like a sliver glowing behind thick blankets of clouds; maybe even a little on the woman humming with her hands wrapped around her hot thermos and the minicons practically purring at the situation.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming from the art that this was originally for G1, but I had to do something for Armada or I was gonna go nuts. Am I sorry there's still something about that series that begs me to write something for it? ...Yes, but I'm not going to apologize. Starscream was a MARTYR in Armada—he was an actual PERSON. Also, I am trash and therefore have no taste.


	4. MTMTE_ Blurr/Swindle+Swerve/Skids+Rung: “I'm still a doctor”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MTMTE_ Blurr/Swindle+Swerve/Skids+Rung: “I'm still a doctor”
> 
> Prompt: “greater-than-the-sword: *whispers* Whatever you do, do NOT think about the inevitability that one half of your otp will outlive the other.”

_-:-_  
The first cut is the deepest.  
-Sheryl Crow.

* * *

 

Incision after incision ran deep into the mesh of Swerve's leg as he cut a perfect square to pull off and placed it delicately next to Rung, unconscious, thank Primus _(those injuries decorating the psychiatrist would have left even Optimus Prime in a state of panic and the mech didn't need to exasperate his injuries further seeing that there was nobody to help him except SWERVE and the two mechs sharing the hole in the mountain they had taken cover in when it became obvious that the snow freezing everything on the planet they were on would only hinder any rescue aid)_ and got on to the hard part of identifying some tubing lines that weren't essential to his staying alive.  
  
Ones that would fit Rung and Swindle. Swerve didn't feel like cutting into Blurr again to get tubing when he'd already taken the former-racer _(“Oh, I'm not really a part of the circuit anymore; now I run Maccadem's. Ever been there since the war?”)_ up on the offer for some of that pretty blue metal to patch the holes from a laser blast in Swindle's upper chassis, tank, the joints of his right knee as well as the deep laceration that cut way too close to Rung's spark for comfort. Swerve himself could stand to give more of himself than just the upper half of the metal from his left leg to patch up the holes in each mech that Blurr's metal wasn't dense or strong enough to properly maintain without springing more leaks which would lead the two to bleed out.  
  
Swerve barely flinched when he lit up the tips of his fingers _(a great trick to use in the bar on a Starscream—a drink whose glass came with a small cord extension—light it, let the spark ignite the thin film of dark matter engex along the rim and then chug; it left certain mechs cringing for days at the ringing in the years because the surprise was that the heat settled at the bottom and then popped when the rest of the fuel was gone)_ and ripped out the lines he needed, carefully heating and sealing the holes left behind.  
  
Blurr had to look away, too squeamish at the sight of more energon and the thought of anyone willingly hurting themselves further into what was turning into a disaster of a day. It was for a good cause, he knew, but that didn't mean he had to like it.  
  
Swindle, helm resting in the racer's lap, gave a moan full of static and Blurr was almost glad for the reason to focus on anything else when Swerve moved onto his upper thigh, looking, Blurr assumed, for some larger cables that would fit Swindle and help direct energon to where it needed to go so his nanites and healing protocols wouldn't be wasted.  
  
“So...” Blurr started after Swindle didn't continue groaning, settling completely when Blurr ran long fingers along his helm, wiping at grime and ash from the fire Blurr had carried him through, words to fill in the emptiness and bleak situation with another Autobot that apparently flew in the Lost Lot; the same Lost Light that Megatron now co-captained with Rodimus, “What happened to your friend there?”  
  
The mini yanked off a scrap of metal and started in on the perfect set of cables, the little scalpels he kept with him from before the war and before his medical education was interrupted a little rusty but still precise and still perfectly able to register stinging he had to turn off his warning systems to continue. He barely glanced at Blurr before replying, nerves sedated but still present, “He's a nice guy. He thought he could diffuse a situation before it got out of hand between two BIG fraggin' 'Cons and a whole hoard of NAILS, but that didn't happen, obviously.”  
  
The much bigger mech seemed to flinch at the word “'Cons” but didn't react much beyond that, besides gripping Swindle below the arms and hauling him up so he could rest on his chest plates, helm lolling to the side and perching on his...friends?...shoulder.   
  
Outside the cave, beyond the tiny fire Swerve had got going when he realized wasting energy keeping his headlights on full blast would hinder his ability to help Rung, explosions echoed and lit up the white landscape for at least ten seconds. Red, ember yellow and blues flashed out like a crash on a highway and both of the conscious mechs looked up. Another blast sounded, but no lights and much further off, maybe half a mile, so no chance of either of them being seen or heard if they went out to call for someone to save their afts.  
  
Cables leaked energon in the moments Swerve was distracted and he cursed, running scorching hot finger tips to seal metal and not-quite-rubber, turning over to Rung, and resting a hand over the welded plating over the psychiatrist's spark. Brushing gently, he found what he was looking for, a line that looked like gutted ribbons, and gripping tight, cables just beside him, he yanked out the now-useless lines from the elder and started replacing the cables quickly. From what little Swerve recalled from medical school, before he'd set his sights perfectly on Metallurgy _(the plastic surgery of Cybertronian society; basically the laughingstock of the medical profession unless someone lost their face or something, then they couldn't wait to shut up and get in line)_ he knew that energon directed to the spark was insanely important. Rung might still have had his mainline, but he didn't want to risk things going further awry because of his age and change in important parts.  
  
He didn't like that even the burn that must have been flaring up and inside Rung's internals didn't make the other wake up, but he did his best to continue despite the desperation churning inside him. Smoke curled up into his face as he melded tubing to metal, energon evaporating and traveling inside his vents and then out again.  
  
Nausea was present, but paid no mind and when he was sure that the imminent threat had passed, he ex-vented and turned to limp over to where the other two were. His leg with the missing cables felt incredibly numb with the energon sucking at the things that were missing and redirecting slowly. This must have been what is was like when a human described a body part falling asleep.  
  
Grunting, the mini bent down into a half-tilt, the for-now useless leg buckling under him and the other one slow to leading him into a crouched position to survey anything that he might have missed on Swindle, also making sure that his touch didn't linger on the patchwork he'd done to Blurr.  
  
“How long do you think it'll be until your crew come looking for you?”  
  
Visor flashed brighter almost imperceptibility at the question directed at him, hands still steady though, finding a break in Swindle's side he'd missed that wasn't a life or death problem, but needed closer inspection in the event that it turned into something worse.  
  
“Our crew? Don't you mean your crew?”  
  
“Ah, Swindle and I don't have the current tracking protocols hardwired into us yet. Well, actually no, that's not accurate. _I_ don't have them wired yet and Swindle isn't the type to get it in the first place. We're really not that important to be tracked down—I mean, I run a bar and Swindle sometimes does the data-work for me so I don't run the place into the ground, but the only ones that would really come looking for us are friends from the bar and none of them are here, they're back on Cybertron and the envoy we came with was with Windblade and Chromia and they're probably trying to calm things down so--”  
  
“Slow. Down.”  
  
Those were words Swerve _never_ thought would leave his mouth, but he didn't bother to think too hard on it. He preferred to think he was doing them both a favor as he needed Blurr to help him for this next part and the excessive talking had apparently tapped into the racer's stress levels, making him overheat.  
  
“Right, sorry, nervous habit, sorry,” Blurr babbled a little slower, straightening his back struts as Swerve motioned for him to move Swindle a little forward and hold him steady so the mini could pad around the smooth talker's midsection and around to where shrapnel pieces no bigger than thumbnails were embedded. Of course he'd have to miss something...  
  
“Anyway,” Blurr continued, not minding at all the Swindle was still half in his lap as the much smaller mech checked him, the discomfort in their current situation baking down to a simmer, barely as important as the gentle joy making him jittery with the realization that not just Blurr was being taken care of in some forgotten hole in a mountain, but his probably-best-friend who everyone knew and nobody liked, as if this whole thing wasn't that much of a big deal for this tiny medic, “I think it's more likely your crew will come looking for you first. Right?”  
  
Swerve paused just a little, trying to press experimentally on some metal that had been gently melted by fire without completely toppling over the unconscious Swindle, but scoffed at the very idea Blurr ventured, “Pfft, no, not me. People don't come looking for me unless they need me to unlock the Lost Light's bar and that can be easily forgone if they can get Brainstorm to hack the pass codes.”  
  
“But...”  
  
“Don't worry though,” Swerve continued, fingers heating a second to melt some slight holes back over and then moving on, trying to muster up some positive energy, “People come looking for Rung over there. Everyone loves Rung. He's a good guy, so it shouldn't be too long a wait come to that.”  
  
He tapped on the thickest of the shrapnel and practically transformed into alt-mode when it was Rung and not the ex-Con that began an ungodly racket of high pitched screaming and clawing at the floor of the cave.  
  
“AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIHHHHHH!!!”

* * *

  
“Not good, not good, not good...”  
  
“Cool your fan belts, Skids, I'm sure the chatterbox and what's-his-alt-mode is around here somewhere.”  
  
“Really? Then where?!”  
  
Whirl dropped the heavy, extremely dead Decepticon he'd been looking under back into the filthy snow and mud caked and brimming with spilled energon, looking as exasperated as anyone without facial features actually could look, giant chicken feet lifting up and over other dead bodies that were too small to obscure either Swerve or Rung from view. It was a nice body count that he'd wanted to gloat in about an hour ago before Skids had dragged the Wrecker off in search of the barkeeper and Whirl's little orange psychiatrist.   
  
Getaway was with them, but climbing up and over boulders that had been much larger before the riot had broken out, looking much too pleased to be involved in what he viewed as a game of hide and seek to be worth talking to in Skids' opinion.  
  
“I don't know. Maybe back at the ship?”  
  
Skids actually managed a glare at the crazy mech that probably got copied off of Megatron when chastising Rodimus throughout the ship, “We were just inside the ship. We didn't see them there. Do you think I'd drag our afts through some fragging white wasteland if they were in the ship, obviously safe and sound?”  
  
Getaway was wise enough to recognize and rhetorical question when he heard one and Whirl took no notice, stepping onto a red 'Con's face and crashing it under his weight, cackling when it caved in like one of those weird dents in floaty beverage fuels with the word 'diet' etched into them.  
  
Skids picked up a rock and threw it at his chest guns, hitting spot on, but getting no response as Whirl continued onto another Decepticon's face.  
  
Getaway continued looking for a higher rock, a little homing beacon in his hand, raised above his head looking for what he hoped would be either mechs' radio signature. He tripped a little over his hop onto the next rock, decorated lovingly with energon and scrap metal, but he caught himself just barely. Barely eight feet off the ground.  
  
This was pathetic. Rung was dependable and never walked away from a crisis and Swerve wasn't the type to just ditch out of a fight. He'd gone into battle with Optimus Prime's voice as the victory battle cry during the battle on Cybertron with Shockwave, for spark's sake.  
  
Skids was feeling a little ashamed that neither 'Bot had been noted being gone during the fight and now that it was over, nobody really seemed all the concerned about it, too busy with the femmes that had managed pretty well in the fight and all the wounded being dragged to the medibay and the over worked staff.  
  
Really, this sort of thing wasn't entirely new, the captains were pretty decent, but...  
  
The big blue amnesiac ex-vented when Getaway waved him over, perched atop the highest ground he could find (a flight-frame that had bought it in the air and crashed nose first to the ground, rotors and wings at a tilt) and buzzing on about finally catching a signal.

* * *

  
“Are-you-really-really-really-sure-this-is-a-good-idea--”  
  
“Yeah, dude, I'm no doctor, but I gotta agree that you should probably have have anesthetic for this kind of thing--”  
  
“Just pull!”  
  
Two pairs of hands gripped at the open incision Swerve had cut into his back plating—widespread for extra material in case he screwed up further into the night before they got rescued—and yanked hard. The red and white painted mesh came loose almost immediately and, dear Primus it hurt-it hurt-it hurt—but Swerve just bit down on (through) his lower lip and took the warnings to his systems as they came pouring in, relatively minor amounts of energon coating the metal Blurr and Swindle _(they hadn't wanted to wake the other up, knew he'd freak out at having Blurr's and Swerve's metal coating his injuries like some bad sci-fi movie clip, but they needed an extra set of hands to help Swerve fix the internal damage he'd missed on initial examination of Rung. That and he kept screaming 'not you, not you!' when Swerve was cleaning out the charred metal and looking at anyone else was tantamount to a blessing)_ set the plating down and went back to calming Rung as Swerve set to work, point precise in focus and trying not to pass out.  
  
Worse, Swerve tried not to purge his meager amounts of energon in his tank and then pass out into it while welding together wires sparking against pretty important parts of Rung's internals, maneuver around the spark chamber and try not to pay attention to Delirious Rung mentioning getting shot in the head and begging that it wasn't happening again...

* * *

  
_Skids looked scary when in a bad mood. Standing in Swerve's hab-suite doorway._   
  
_No, strike that, blocking the hab-suite doorway._   
  
_Rung didn't really know what he'd gone there to say when Swerve was still pretty much blotto from the incident a week ago that nobody was talking about, but it seemed rather pertinent to say something when he hadn't approached either mech since Skids took him back to the privacy of his room after being discharged from medbay three days after all the other bots that had been found in the cave._   
  
_Skids saying **“This makes you two even, now,”** was still ringing in Rung's processor when he'd tried to see Swerve the first time and been dismissed by the amnesiac, same as Blurr, same as Swindle._   
  
_“Yes?” Skids asked, not verbally more angry than his demeanor would have implied, but not friendly, either and not budging an inch from what he'd decided was the perfect distance between the psychiatrist and the Metallurgist._   
  
_“I... Is he awake, yet?”_   
  
_“Not yet.”_   
  
_“Can you tell me when he is?”_   
  
_“...Okay.”_   
  
_They didn't say anything further, Skids just nodding down at Rung and returning inside, the door tight to the frame when shut and Rung sighing before turning to go back to thinking really hard about this whole mess._   
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pretty much did this because I wanted to see a piece with all of these characters in a bad situation but couldn't find it anywhere. Nothing like agitation to get you writing again. Also, I have this headcanon when it comes to Metallurgy with MTMTE that may or not be canon.


	5. TFP: Bulkhead/Miko/Starscream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: SHAKESPEARE+College Theater Major AU.

_-:-_  
Tell me what you like about me. And don't be fucking polite.  
-Romance & Cigarettes.

* * *

  
“Once upon a time, I know for sure and more than that the truth of the matter once was and is still present—I HATED YOU. With all the hate pulled out of the poison stars and toxic suns and all the rest of the hate that could come from heart, from soul, from these hands sent to do the ill will of the devil himself in flesh and bone these tiny hands can give in mortal anger. And yet, here I am, I stand atop your heart and worry that you'll turn out all right from this stupidity you've wrought upon yourself and he--”  
  
Salt in liquid terror, agony of choice in the eyes of honeyed hate and clouded sympathy, bloomed over cheeks in the days of peace white as camomile milk from a tin and those anxious shaking fingertips thrashing water in shamed upon the ground. One pointed finger, nails abent and cracked melon the choice of color with gobs and sparks of Japanese Cherry shining under poor lighting in a simple spot that blue and crimson optics followed as far as themselves.   
  
Shame infused one optic set, those Robin's egg hues a lit with a light that shamed lamps true lovers walked among in a century past; those other two, those vermillion glass pieces better suited to a warning looked on in equal measure but would not apologize, for while regret was present through and through, nothing was made known to give anything back until this creature set between, in her splendor and her youth gave out in this all-encompassing anxiety.  
  
“...He has already laid himself down for the sake of his cause in far more ways than thee will ever know, simpleton! How dare you presume to put yourselves in this position of desecration from swords taken up in the name your former master against his own that stands as savior for thee both to thank as wretched you return to this house--”  
  
“Stop it! Enough! No more! I can't take it anymore!”  
  
Bulkhead, Starscream and Miko looked over at Ratchet in the doorway of the medibay, wrench clenched in his hand to scrap and a piece already fallen to the floor when his thumb pressed down on the head.  
  
“I'm calling in a time-out to this whole Shakespeare Language Month until these two get out of recovery,” the medic continued onward, even as Bulkhead opened his mouth to interject that it was fine, it was fine, she needed to ace the midterm coming up and Starscream made to thank the hell out of the Autobot twice their age, “Your grasp on the language is fine until then. It was fine a week ago, and honestly, you choking on snot and tears is not going to do any good with it. When they're recovered, you can go back to it, but until then, choke on normal words and blow your nose, woman.”  
  
“Agreed,” Starscream spoke up as Ratchet huffed and walked away, the now-neutral-don't-rub-it-in flier mech lifting up a dull clawed hand and setting it down for the girl-woman to step upon, her bare feet padding along his digits and sending his EM field to reach out towards Bulkhead with what little compassion he had for anyone; the Wrecker setting his own hand on the table between the medical berths so that the Seeker settled hand upon hand, Miko reaching out both arms to touch both their thumbs, her legs sliding over Starscream's palm, bare feet braced to Bulkhead's; a perfect perch, “Not to say that you haven't been...improving...but you'll choke at this rate.”  
  
“'Screamer,” Bulkhead warned, allowing Miko to cling closer to him, but understanding her silence. Even with Ratchet letting her off the hook, she promised herself and everyone that was present (most of the base) that she wouldn't speak a word of general English until the month was out. She kept her promises and the month wasn't out for another ten days.  
  
They knew that. And as they had already sent her into a state of unrest, they shared a quiet look, in mutual agreement to make her feel even a piffling amount better.  
  
“Thou shalt not spare tears of remorse over poor souls unworthy of the gesture, dear lady,” Starscream started, the aplomb of his words a trail of ease that Bulkhead could follow and Miko gave gentle cheer in raise of lip and tilt of chin for.  
  
“Aye,” the Wrecker continued on, reaching with his other hand, grabbing within small confine of open chest compartment a warm cloth of silk, lace trim and satin that smelled of cologne _(beautiful woman, brave and strong as any man anywhere, something both ground and air mech cherished about her)_ to place upon still shaking frame of soft emotion that while did not quite register as well as any robot, gave a micro EM field that touched both, “If there were but a truth in words, in agreement between these two unworthy curs, it be that you not take after poor clouds that let loose grief and agony like bitter morning's dew. We are not worthy.”  
  
Miko accepted warmth and tender wrappings, tucking herself tight and lay between both hands, still not pleased enough to laugh at this idiocy between the three of them, but cuddling, skin to metal, enjoying the scents of ozone and earth and fuel that was better than flowers in the window of her dorm room; their ex-vents lullaby and music box to ears attuned to be pleasured at such sounds.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I like weird-ass OT3s; so what? At least they worked pretty well for the sake of this fucking prompt that was so hard to finish I nearly rammed my head through a wall.


	6. MTMTE: Helex/Nickel cuddling, NSFW, awkwardness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: tf-rare-pairings_ Nickel/Helex-cuddling/alltheprompts_Prompt Set #415_#1 cloggy soil

_-:-_  
Love? A feeling that burns so fiercely, you wouldn't detest dying if only you are with her.  
-Romeo x Juliet

* * *

  
Tiny treaded wheels for feet, meter on the forehelm, bright colors unusual for a Decepticon,  
though they suit her just fine in the aftermath of thought, in the opinion of the living smelter,  
who kept her close when night descended,  
casting night terror that couldn't be erased.  
  
Blood and energon made running tracks in pede prints bigger than herself,  
her spark fritzed in time with laboured ex-vents and scrabbling hands against armor she had buffed out hours before;  
dreams were rare thanks to the medicine she made herself with the help of many mechs hands gathering,  
hunting a better sport when it wasn't just a self-imposed duty.  
  
“I can take care of your scrapped hides, I don't need you looking after mine like I'm The Pet!”  
“I never said anything to that affect; do you have it on recording? Nope, you don't, 'cause I never said it.”  
“...Then why are you in my room every morning?”  
“Because you never kick me out at night.”  
  
They go about their days, torturing enemies and deserters alike,  
T-Cogs, sparks, brains modules, they're all the same to him, but little puzzle pieces to mend or break for her,  
like weeds and flowers, rocks and gold,  
sometimes Nickel uses him as a table when she's run out of room anywhere else.  
  
She thanks him after wards, of course,  
“It's kinda boring right now, nobody to fix and nobody to hunt, and I have soundproofing in my hab-suite.”  
The smile is not sadistic on his face, which is why its hesitant, but it gets there before he answers, just as hesitant,  
“How could I pass up an invite like that?”  
  
First comes cleaning him up in the wash-rack attached to her room,  
brushes, mops, brooms, rakes, shovels to clean out dead mechs, rocks bigger than herself, liquid that stains and silt lying at the bottom;  
but then comes cleaning her, complaining when he picks her up in hand like a doll in his bigger sets of servos,  
his smaller set getting to work with a wash cloth, smoothing into joints and seems that are always clean anyway, but elicit delightful sound.  
  
Usually after fifteen minutes of that—delightful—exploration, she drags him to the berth,  
though dragging might be pushing it,  
more like pinching his pointer finger, him hunched down, and her leading the way,  
very LOUDLY.  
  
She can't shove him onto the berth like she wants, but her body language is clear and he gladly shifts into position, back to berth,  
her perched on his chest and neck, panel open near his mouth,  
there's no spike and port like he has, only a port and it's just so pretty in as much a way to him as anything can be,  
being as his experience with beauty was a little...skewed.  
  
Soft indigo mesh, coils that gave way to a glowing empowering royal blue, semi-flowing orange lubricant sliding out to meet him,  
glossa slides easily from his mouth; this is something they've done in private many times,  
all his hands are kept to himself and it's difficult, the chirps she makes on contact, his appendage big inside her, flexing her coils tight,  
Helex allows his own panel to open and his spike to rise full and heavy, but ignores himself in favor of the medic.  
  
“Helex...Helex...Helex...there, there, harder—ah!”  
His denta hold her in place, perfectly under her after and above her thighs and she could probably make out that he was smiling,  
but her hands are gripping his face, digits fidgeting against the troughs below his optics,  
the little meter on her helm is swishing back and forth in time with his ministrations until the one he loves takes affect on her ceiling node.  


* * *

  
His face was never meant to been straddled and held to,  
it wasn't pretty and he was aware, but it was just something she did afterwards, every time;  
Helex still on his back, a trail of lubricant leading from his face, down to his depressurized spike and now drying valve, and back,  
he actually enjoyed the little puddle of warmth the had set into his neck cables with Helex passed out cuddling his face.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a perfect opportunity to try out a new writing style that normally isn't the cup of tea I can stomach, but what the hell I can be less uptight when I want to be, because this chapter has smut and I am garbage. And my OpenOffice spellcheck crapped out, so forgiveness in any typos.


	7. MTMTE_Drift/Ratchet, Tailgate/Cyclonus, Skids/Swerve: Blender Mix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MTMTE_Drift/Ratchet, Tailgate/Cyclonus, Skids/Swerve: Blender Mix
> 
> Take six ingrediants: Metallurgist Bartender, Theoretician, Ex-Decepticon Spiritualist Swordsmech, Forgotten Sanitation Ancient, Not-Decepticon Ex-Zombie and Chief Medical Officer; stuff inside a blender, press blend and toss it out into a different dimension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A late birthday present for Insecuriosity, that I'm hoping will be a proper cheer up or at the very least a gift that can be tolerated.

_-:-_  
An infinity of new universes...  
-MTMTE #38, Perceptor.

* * *

1.  
  
_[His head hurt... The tunnel collapsing must have brought down enough pressurized material to break off one of his horns, because after the episode of passing out after being brought out to the light and finding himself in this new, sterile environment, the first thing he did—stiff joints everywhere, at all his ends and in almost every inch of slightly dusty, color faded plating—was lift his hand and rub at the missing piece of his helm._  
  
_"Ow, ow, ow..."_  
  
_"Easy there," the white mech with blue highlights and three swords tied at his midsection hushed lightly, good humored in every fiber of himself and gentle hands placed on the shoulder of the mech that had come up from the underground like some terrified, overgrown petrorabbit, "The doc's still giving you the meds to loosen you back up. If what Drift says is true, you were down under a long time—it'll be a while until the soreness fades."_  
  
_Red optics peered at the blue visor alight and awash with sympathy for his discomfort, "Where are we? The Ark's medibay?"]_  
  
"So what can be made out of that constellation there?"  
  
Strong, but gentle pink-purple fingers pointed out towards the star system the Lost Light had been cruising through for a week, directing the quietly amused white swordsmech towards the enormously luminescent grey-blue stars huddled in a trio, just sort of circling a crescent of pink nebula cluster.  
  
The dummy standing in the middle of the room the two mechs were in—the observation room, with that little pool of water and the bridge Drift and Ratchet had installed after their debate on the need to exist among life outside themselves to truly be fulfilled had somehow devolved into a building challenge that ended with them making Rodimus pull the ship over so they could buy little glowing mutant jellyfish that glowed different colors based on their pheromones and environment; they used the place to bickered like conjux endura while everyone else just liked to look in on the ship's pets—shifted swiftly back and forth twice when Tailgate hit it on the plate with his bamboo sword for practice.  
  
The beaded strings of three, little round rocks and bells at the end of the sword's handle jingled and tinkled as Tailgate chuckled at Cyclonus sitting on the low bridge, pedes in the water and waving back and forth like a sparkling that grew up but didn't even realize it; the swordsmech's response was more his own question than an answer, but that was the point of this little game they had made up in their months together, "Rodimus, Ultra Magnus and maybe Rung...finding a magic carpet? Or maybe turbofoxes mending themselves at a river?"  
  
Cyclonus seemed stuck on Tailgate's first consideration, horns waving back and forth as he tilted his head this way and that, like he was trying to see what the other saw in that, exactly, "What's a magic carpet?"  
  
Oh, he was so much fun to play with.

* * *

2.  
  
Blackened blue coloring, red lines, purple circles, fine penmanship covered the entirety of Drift's left side from under his optic _(the area just along his cheek plate and descending to his jawline wrinkled and slantlined from that fight almost a year before when he'd taken up Whirl's gun in that battle with Snap Trap's Decepticons and nearly blown his face off—he kept some of it as a reminder like so many other things)_ and down to his still very fine looking pede. Tattoos remarking on poetry, interesting points in time, rare flowers, butterflies, marked him in a sort of asymmetrical beauty that, had they been home, he never would have tried. This was certain.  
  
But he obviously wasn't a swordsmech here; no he owned the ship's bar and stood behind the counter at present talking with what must have been the youngest version of Ratchet anyone had _ever_ seen—just after Ratchet had shimmied out of the vents overhead and begged the bartender for just a few minutes to persuade him of what he rushed into babbling about, not even having to order the drink Drift set in front of him and articulating each point with his hands dancing in the air like a musician with his favorite wind or string instrument.  
  
"Please, please, please? I think it would really good to have a debate session in here instead of hosting movie night. Don't get me wrong, the last time Brainstorm picked a movie, she was spot on and actually got Perceptor to shut up and think about something other than random science that could lead to explosive results that had Nautica acting way more protective than he usually is, but still—I want to see if there's really been much of a change in opinion of recent events. Pros and cons in a theater of civility and refined thinking Drift, please tell me that wouldn't be a wonderful social event."  
  
Oak tree leaves danced along Drift's fingers in the colors of ivory _(so close to the color of a protoform that they shined like illuminated billboarding)_ as he slowly maneuvered a wet rag through a shot glass to clean out excess energon that had dried and was clinging to the bottom, the grin on his face much more serene than his friend, optics watching with a hidden emotion everyone else but them knew was deep affection that Drift kept to himself because, heh, he didn't think anyone would ever return them back. He was so self-deprecating sometimes, but if ever he went verbal with it, Ratchet chastised him and it wouldn't come up for air until months later like a recurring fungal growth on his psyche.  
  
"Oh, and you could have like, a drink special or in-house betting thing," Ratchet added, really pumped up with both the vision and the begging, taking a chug of his light green Engex, gold dust circling the bottom and rice wine ice cubes sticking to his denta until he brought the drink back down to the bar counter and wiped away the leak line that trailed from the side of his mouth down to his chin with the back of his wrist, "First round, everyone pays. Each team that wins gets a free round and the losing side pays for it. Six whole rounds of debate—What if the 'Cons Had Won the War, Swords or Guns on the Battlefield, Romantic Relations Among Crew mates..."  
  
Ratchet took that pause he usually did when his mind wandered or caught that snag he'd been dealing with since he'd lost a large percentage of his memories and lifted a hand near the light theater above the bar top, poking at the dried China Tea Roses Drift had set up as good Zen decorations, the old shoelaces holding their stems together tickling the tip of his digit.  
  
Drift swatted his hand down in the universal gesture of 'No Touchy' and added onto the conversation as helpfully as he could even if when they weren't talking about more philosophical things he was so out of his element Ratchet knew he was just making it up as he went along...even if he didn't know how he could understand that about someone he didn't really know all that much about aside from being a good bartender, a bonafide 'Hippie' and absolutely gorgeous, "Little White Lies vs The Whole Truth?"  
  
"Is that a yes to the debate session?"  
  
Drift hummed teasingly, setting the glean glass in his hands back on the back shelves by the mirrors.

* * *

3.  
  
The tiny light that Swerve had shined in the optics of the ship's favorite former Decepticon-turned-Autobot-doctor flashed once, twice, three times and then turned off, convinced that Ambulon's brain hadn't been further damaged while he and Whirl had been doing extended repairs on his internal systems and the casing around his fuel pump that allowed him to not be restricted to a wheelchair.  
  
"Alright, Ambulon, you can get up. Don't drink anything but light energon if you go to the bar and remember that if you go to the wash-racks--"  
  
"Don't be getting busy in them."  
  
Swerve swatted the helicopter on the rear and all he got back was a wicked cackle as he went to wash off his hands ( _sleek digits that held and molded so much like his old ones, able to piece together the smallest mechanism, but not his; Pharma would have been spinning in his grave if he ever found out what Swerve did with his previous appendages—the mad doctor, doubtless, would have hated the CMO much more than he already did since Delphi)_ and left Ambulon to suffer the presence of Swerve in his usual bad mood following operations.  
  
Ambulon smiled as best he could with the heaviness that always overtook him following his weldings being replaced and having to get used to the new ones keeping him together like two pieces of a badly stitched handkerchief; the light from his spark flickering between the cracks and the stitching and lighting up his face even more into the fantastically disconcerting thing Pharma had reduced him to.  
  
When Swerve turned back to finish, he flinched noticeably at the spark's light and turned away, busying himself with clearing away the used tools for the washbin and shooing Whirl back out, yelling as an afterthought to refrain from turning the lights in the operating theater up.  
  
Ambulon didn't take the flinch personally. After all, he considered, getting off of the medical berth and making for the exit where First Aid was doubtlessly fidgeting and waiting for news on him _(Luna-1 had been unfortunate for them all, not just Ambulon; First Aid had tried to apologize for rushing Swerve, insulting him in his panic covered in Ambulon's lost energon, reminding the CMO of his failings on Cybertron and what had ruined the minibot's career and relationship with Optimus_ _ **[bullet to the head that hadn't been meant for him in a close battle with Megatron, but still blew his head off and still detroyed his entire reputation, making him a pariah among other Autobots until he finally had that nervous breakdown, tore off his Autobrand and became just a neutral that got on the Lost Light first chance he could—nevermind that Optimus had forgiven him, the damage was done regardless of Swerve also being the one to put Optimus back together; Megatron's parting thanks before he'd run off had practically crippled any belief in Swerve that his relationship with the leader of the Autobots could ever go back to what it was and outright ruined any thought of becoming close with anyone else]**_ _...but it seemed that whenever he tried, the gap between them got bigger)_ that Ambulon always preferred to give on his own, after all Swerve couldn't take bright lights anymore.  
  
It was funny, if Ambulon thought in a darker spectrum than he used to growing up with the Decepticons; most medics from the war slowly lost the use of their fine surgeons hands. Rust and decay crept up on them, residuals from being arm joint deep in the innards of other mechs and femmes, and yet, Swerve was the perpetual dark horse in this, as the saying went, He took good care of his hands and so they continued to functioned perfectly. No, Swerve's only failing was in taking care of his optics and the wires and other connections to them—those had slowly decayed during the war, which was why he wore that visor all the time now or kept the lights in the medibay on so low that most mechs fell all over themselves the first time they visited.  
  
Nearing the doors, he was unsurprised to find Skids on the other side opening them to let Ambulon out and himself inside, a case of heavy-grade Engex and nickel shavings in hand for himself and Swerve—mostly Swerve—which was usual for the end of the minibot's shift.  
  
Ambulon smiled politely at the Tetrahex warrior, knowing full well that Skids would be closing up the ward while Swerve cleaned up; turn down the lights until only shapes and outlines could be made, absently highlighted only by the body lights and optic glow of the minibot and the tall blue mech, peaceful and quiet until Swerve emerged back into the room where Skids would greet him.  
  
First Aid was still in the hall waiting for Ambulon but had seemingly resolved to cower at the far end when Skids had come along, giving the nurse the same rage filled, disgusted look he always did since Luna-1, not going against Swerve's wishes to refrain from tearing the smaller mech apart, but unwilling to just remain entirely frozen in what he did—he would continue to be that way until First Aid apologized, too. Ambulon was aware Skids wasn't a Decepticon, but they had similar thought processes, so while he didn't personally aprove, he would respect the choices of all parties involved until it was resolved.  
  
"You are doing well?" Skids huffed, accent making the question come out in a growl, even though he hadn't ever in memory been hostile to the ex-Decepticon.  
  
"Yes, thank you," Ambulon smiled, the look appearing almost brittle because of the scarring and welding marks, but real, "He's in the back. Whirl left already."  
  
Skids nodded and waited for Ambulon to step out entirely before bolting the doors from the inside. He waited a little while before he could hear both the patient and the nurse leave the hallway, First Aid whispering to Ambulon questions of his wellness and how things had went and probably—doubtlessly--clasping his hands in his worrying attempts to be endearing until Skids couldn't hear them at all beyond the medibay at all, save for their footfalls and the hum of the lights going off as he leaned over and flipped the switch off, leaving himself in the dark to wait for Swerve.  
  
He made his way by memory to the medical berth biggest and closest, setting their drinks at the far end and then moving towards the back, whistling some of his old Cybertronian ballads, low and calm, greeted back as Swerve continued scrubbing his arms and fingers with the minibot's entrance into the song, slightly higher but just as calm. Tired, too, but that's why Skids was there to begin with.  
  
Which suited the both of them just fine.

* * *

[ _Elsewhere_...]  
  
*  
*  
*  
Carefully and quietly, Brainstorm retracted the scope _(not quite the right word as Perceptor knew it; an intricate collection of data processing that ran through what look like a tube, but had complex camera lenses that could pinpoint something in any direction from two point five miles away and receive it back to the host image retriever for the optic to look over more carefully)_ he'd installed into the briefcase—number thirty-seven of his formally much larger collection—and shut the lid to the containment of the square carrier system. Pressing some of the buttons in the handle, he shut off access to the alternate universe entirely and handed the case over to Perceptor, curious as to what the other scientist had to say after taking notes on everything they'd seen in the last twelve hours from the safety of the sniper's lab.  
  
Three different datapads littered the surrounding desks and Perceptor tucked the case back into the mini-vault he'd had installed a few weeks ago when they'd started this little venture into further study of the differences that could occur between the Event Horizon and some mild probing of outside forces.  
  
Wrapping his brain around alternate universes had been...difficult, but the one thing that brought him back down to his current place in the universe and out of his muddled thoughts, as always, poked him a few times (his head, his neck, his Autobrand) and he swatted the pest that was Brainstorm back and off of him, "Stop vibrating like that. This particular venture wasn't even that exciting; the differences in ships and crew were too minimal to guess at where things took a turn for the better and the worse--"  
  
"Oh, come on!" Brainstorm waved his arms in the air, disappointment at Perceptor flaring to a high flame that was only shadowed by his own childish behavior.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the third week of writing this, the one thought circling my head like the merry-go-round breakdown was "Fuck It; Go Big or Go Home" so I don't care if this got away from me a little.


End file.
